When the dogs growl in an under tone, when they are restless and agitated, and snuff the wind as it drives in eddies through the shutters, "The wolf is abroad," say the peasants.

If these runs in the open country by the light of the moon afford no supper, he returns to the depths of his lair, or takes up the scent of some roebuck, tracks it like a hound, and though his hope is small indeed of ever catching it, he perseveringly follows the trail, trusting that some other wolf, famished like himself, will head the timid animal in its flight, and seize it as it passes, and that, like staunch friends, they will afterwards divide the spoil between them.

But the reverse more often occurs,—and foiled and disappointed, he then becomes, though naturally a dastard and full of fear, absolutely courageous; the fire of hunger consumes his stomach, he fears nothing, and braves every danger; all prudence is forgotten, and his natural ferocity is wound up to such a pitch, that he hesitates not to meet certain destruction, attacks the animals that are actually under the care of man, man himself,—throws himself suddenly upon the poor benighted traveller, and gliding slowly and softly, with the stealthy movements of a serpent, seizes and carries off with him to the depth of the forest the infant sleeping in its cradle, or the little, helpless, innocent child which, ignorant of danger, laughs and plays at the cottage-door.

Unsociable as well as savage, with a heart harder than the ball which drills the ghastly hole in his side, loving only himself and his dark solitudes, the wolf never associates with its own kind; and when, by accident, it happens that a few are seen together, be sure the meeting is not a Peace Congress, or a party of pleasure. The assembled wolves represent a society of reds, preparing the arrangements for a combat, in which many a stream of blood shall flow, amidst the most fearful and horrible cries. If a wolf intends to attack a large animal,—for instance, an ox or a horse,—or if he desires to put a watch-dog, whose strength disquiets him, or whose vigilance incommodes him, out of his way, he roves about the lonely paths of the forest, raising a sharp prolonged cry, which immediately attracts other wolves in the neighbourhood; and when he finds himself surrounded by a numerous troop of his colleagues, bound together by no other tie than the common object they all have in view for the moment, he conducts them to the attack, and should the farmer be not there to out-manoeuvre them, it will be odd indeed if the animal that they have agreed to destroy does not fall a victim to their plans. The expedition over, the valiant brotherhood separate, and each returns in silence to his thicket, whence they emerge to reunite, when slaughter and blood call them forth again to make common cause.

Wolves attain their full size in three years, and live from fifteen to twenty; their hair, like that of man, grows gray with years, and like him also they lose their teeth, but without the advantage of being able to replace them; the race of wolves is as old as the flood,—even older, for their bones have been found in antediluvian remains. They are found in all countries on the New Continent as well as the Old. "They exist," observes Cuvier, "in Asia, Africa, and America, as well as in Europe; from Egypt to Lapland; everywhere, in fact, excepting in England." How an animal so detestable and so universally hated should have continued to perpetuate itself, when every other species of savage beast on the face of the earth diminishes in an infinitely greater proportion, is a problem difficult to solve.

Fourrier, in his "Theorie Harmonique et comparative des especes," remarks truly, that each species of the human race corresponds with some species of the brute creation. The wolves in the forest represent the Jews in the towns; and he asserts, that it being possible only to compare the voracity of the one with the rapacity of the other, these two races, which are identical by reason of their several characteristics, will never perish, never become extinct, except together. But the Jews decline to acknowledge the relationship thus assumed and the paradoxical connexion between themselves and this race of animals; they deny that the idiosyncrasies are in any degree similar, and persist in placing this luminous idea of Fourrier's on a level with that of the sea of lemonade, which will, according to the same author, one day surround our planet.

The bones and teeth of wolves are often discovered, as I have already said, amongst the debris of the antediluvian world.

In the Holy Scriptures, too, there are several observations respecting the wolf,—in them it is stated that he lives upon rapine, is violent, cruel, bloody, crafty, and voracious; he seeks his prey by night, and his sense of smell is wonderful. False teachers are described as wolves in sheep's clothing; and the Prophet Habakkuk, speaking of the Chaldeans, says, "Their horses are more fierce than the evening wolves." And again, Isaiah, describing the peaceful reign of the Messiah, writes,—"The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid: and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them."

The wolf varies in shape and colour, according to the country in which it lives. In Asia, towards Turkey, this animal is reddish; in Italy, quite red; in India, the one called the beriah is described as being of a light cinnamon colour; yellow wolves, with a short black mane along the entire spine, are found in the marshes of all the hot and temperate regions of America. The fur of the Mexican wolf is one of the richest and most valuable known. In the regions of the north the wolf is black, and sometimes black and gray: others are quite white; but the black wolf is always the fiercest. The black is also found in the south of Europe, and particularly in the Pyrennees. Colonel Hamilton Smith relates an anecdote illustrative of its great size and weight. At a battue in the mountains near Madrid, one of these wolves, which came bounding through the high grass towards an English gentleman who was present, was so large that he mistook it for a donkey; and whatever visions of a ride home might have floated across his brain for the moment, right glad was he on discovering his error, to see his ball take immediate effect.

In former days, the Spanish wolves congregated in large packs in the passes of the Pyrennees; and even now the lobo will follow a string of mules, as soon as it becomes dusk, keeping parallel with them as they proceed, leaping from bush and rock, waiting his opportunity to select a victim. Black wolves also are found in the mountains of Friuli and Cattaro; the Vekvoturian wolf of Siberia, described by Pallas, is one of the darkest variety. In Persia and in India wolves are trained and made to play tricks and antics as monkeys and dogs are in Europe. At Teheran, Bankok, and Arracan, a well-trained wolf that can dance a polka of the country, sing a national air, and preserve a grave face during five minutes, with a pair of spectacles on his nose, will fetch as much as 500 dollars.

"In China," remarks Colonel Smith, "wolves abound in the northern province of Shantung;" and Buffon, quoting from Adanson, asserts, that "there is a powerful species of the wolf in Bengal, which hunt in packs, in company with the lion." "One night," says Adanson, "a lion and a wolf entered the court of the house in which I slept, and unperceived, carried off my provisions; in the morning my hosts were quite satisfied, from the well-marked and well-known impressions of their feet in the sand, that the animals had come together to forage." Colonel Smith observes, that "the French wolves are generally browner and somewhat stronger than those of Germany, with an appearance far more wild and savage: the Russian are larger, and seem more bulky and formidable, from the great quantity of long coarse hair that cover them on the neck and cheeks."

"The Swedish and Norwegian are," he says, "similar to the Russian; but appear deeper and heavier in the shoulder; they are also lighter in colour, and in winter become completely white. The Alpine wolves are yellowish, and smaller than the French. This is the type of wolf that is commonly found in the western countries of Europe; and it was, in all probability, this species that once infested the wild and extensive woodland districts of the British Islands; for that wolves were once exceedingly numerous in England, is as certain as that the bear formerly prowled in Wales and Scotland, and with the former was the terror of the inhabitants. How dangerous to them, and how very common they must have been, is evident from the necessity that existed in the reign of Athelstane, 925, for erecting on the public highway a refuge against their attacks. A retreat was built at Flixton, in Yorkshire, to protect travellers against these ravenous brutes. King John, in a grant quoted by Pennant, from Bishop Littleton's collection, mentions the wolf as one of the beasts of the chase that, despite the severe forest laws of the feudal system, the Devonshire men were permitted to kill. Even in the reign of the first Edward, they were still so numerous that he applied himself in earnest to their extirpation, and enlisting criminals into the service, commuted their punishment for a given number of wolves' tongues;—he also permitted the Welsh to redeem the tax he imposed upon them, by an annual tribute of 300 of these horrid animals."

That Edward, however, failed in his attempt to extirpate them, is evident from a mandamus of that monarch's successor, to all bailiffs and legal officers of the realm, to give aid and assistance to his faithful and well-beloved Peter Corbet, whom the King had appointed to take and destroy wolves (lupos) in all forests, parks, and other places in the counties of Gloucester, Worcester, Hereford, and Salop, wherever they could be found. In Derbyshire, certain tenants of lands, at Wormhill, held them on condition that they should hunt the wolves that harboured in that county. The flocks of Scotland appear to have suffered a great deal from the ravages of wolves in 1577, and they were not finally rooted out of that portion of the island till about the year 1686, when the hand of Sir Evan Cameron made the last of them bite the dust.

Wolves were seen in Ireland as late as the year 1710, about which time the last presentment for killing them was found in the county of Cork. The Saxon name for the month of January, "wolf-moneth," in which dreary season the famished beasts became probably more desperate; and the term for an outlaw, "wolfshed," implying that he might be killed with as much impunity as a wolf, indicate how numerous wolves were in those times, and the terror and hatred they inspired. In every country the inhabitants have declared this ferocious brute the enemy of man; and in order, if possible, to annihilate him, have employed every device;—the result in England has been most satisfactory. The Esquimaux, that distant and half-frozen people, have their own peculiar way of trapping wolves; and it is somewhat singular that their ice wolf-trap, as described by Captain Lyon, resembles exactly, except in the material of which it is made, that of France, though it is very certain no Morvinian ever went so far as the Melville peninsula to take a hunting lesson from an Esquimaux. The very birds of prey, those flying thieves of the air, are used for wolf-hunting amongst some of the savage nations of the earth. The Kaissoks take them with the help of a large sort of hawk, called a beskat, which is trained to fly at and fasten on their heads, and tear their eyes out; and the Grand Khan of Tartary has eagles tamed and trained to the sport in the same way as we have our packs to hunt the roebuck and wild boar.

In the sombre forests of the Nivernais and Burgundy, where wolves are still numerous, and where they occasion the farmers great loss by the destruction of their cattle, they are destroyed in every way imaginable. General battues are held, and private hunting parties meet, a multitude of traps set, pits dug, the sportsman and the peasant lie in wait for them, and dogs and cats, well stuffed with deadly poison, are placed near their haunts in the thick underwood. Nevertheless, and in spite of all these crafty inventions and open war with them, the wolves scarcely diminish in number; they still present the same formidable phalanx, and seem determined to defy their destroyers.



CHAPTER XVIII.

The battues of May and December—The gathering of sportsmen—Distribution in the forest—The charivari—The fatal rush—Excitement of the moment—The volley—The day's triumph, and the reward—The peasants returning—Hunting the wolf with dogs—Cub-hunting—The drunken wolf.

In the first days of May, that interesting epoch in which in the forest, the woods, and the plain, the majority of all animals are with young; and in the commencement of December, the period of storm and tempest and the heavy rains, which precede the great snows, two general battues take place in Le Morvan. To these all the tribe of sportsmen—the good, the bad, and the indifferent—are invited; in short, every one in the neighbourhood who loves excitement attends. Gentlemen, poachers, and gens-d'armes, young conscripts and old soldiers, doctors and schoolmasters, every one who is the fortunate possessor of a gun, a carbine, a pistol, a sabre, a bayonet, or any other weapon, presents himself at the rendezvous. Bands of peasants, also, armed with bludgeons, spears, broomsticks, cymbals, bells, frying-pans, sauce-pans, and fire-irons (it is impossible to make too much noise on the occasion), arrive from every point of the compass, and add their numbers to those already assembled. On the day agreed upon, therefore, and at the spot indicated, a small army is on foot, which, full of ardour and thirsting for the combat, brandish with shouts their various weapons and kitchen utensils, drink to the success of the enterprise, and wait with no little impatience the signal to place themselves in march, and attack the enemy. The commander of these assembled forces,—generally the head ranger of the forest,—having under his orders a battalion of sub gardes-de-chasse, directs their movements.

This mode of taking the wolf is conducted with very great order and circumspection; everything is well arranged beforehand; the ravines and deep underwood, which the wolves are known to resort to, have been carefully ascertained; the number of guns and rifles necessary to surround this or that wood are told off, and the whole plan is so well prepared, the execution of it is so prompt, every one is so well aware of what he has to do, that in one day a large tract of country is carefully beaten.

In these battues, those who have fire-arms form two sides of a triangle, and are placed with their backs to the wind, along the roads which border the wood the traqueurs are about to beat. On no account ought they to fire to their rear, but always to the front; and in order to prevent, in this respect, misunderstanding and accident, the garde, whose duty it is to place each sportsman at his post, breaks a branch, or cuts a notch in the tree before him, in order that in a moment of hesitation and excitement this broken bough or barked spot may remind him of his real position. The base of the triangle or the cord of the arc (for this curved line had more the shape of a great bow slightly strung than any other geometrical figure) is formed of the peasants, who, side by side, wait only for the last signal to advance, when they commence their euphonious concert—a charivari not to be described.

The arrangements and preparations, conducted in profound silence, being terminated, the signal is given, when the tumult, which at once breaks forth, produces intense excitement. The forest, hitherto silent, and apparently without life, is suddenly awakened with confused noises, metallic and human—the peasants shout, halloo, sing, and bang together their pots, kettles, and pieces of iron, striking every bush and thicket with their staves, and scaring every animal before them. Flights of wood-pigeons, coveys of partridges, birds of every size, species, and plumage, pass like moving shadows above their heads. The owls, too, suddenly aroused from sleep, leave their dark holes, and, blinded by the light, fly against the branches in their alarm with cries of terror—probably imagining the order of night and day is reversed, and that the unusual and unearthly noises proclaim that the end of the world has arrived for the owls. Then come the roebuck and the foxes, bounding and breaking through the underwood, and the hares and rabbits, which jump up under the feet of the beaters.

Motionless as a mile-stone at your post, and rifle ready, this flying legion of animals gives you a twinge of impatience, for you must allow them a free passage, as in these battues one dare not fire at anything, save and except the great object of the day, the wolf. Wolves alone have the honour on these important occasions of receiving the contents of your double-barrel. But the cowards, divining what is in preparation for them, are the last to show themselves; as the line advances, they trot up and down the portion of the wood thus enclosed, seeking for an outlet, or some break in the line; and they never make up their minds to advance to the front until the tempest of sounds behind them is almost ringing in their ears. But now the thunder of voices, till then distant, approaches, and the cries and hallooing of the peasants, like a flowing tide, forces them to draw nearer to the huntsmen.

Whether or no, that fatal line must now be passed, and the few minutes that precede the last movement of the wolves towards it brings to every sportsman sensations impossible to describe. He knows the brutes are in his rear, approaching, and a feeling like an electric current runs at this exciting moment from one to the other; every man's finger is on his trigger, his pulse throbs at a feverish pace, his heart beats like the clapper of a bell in full swing—all, to take a surer aim, kneel, or place their back against the nearest tree, and each offers up a prayer for aid to his patron saint. This nervous moment has sometimes such an effect upon ardent and excitable imaginations, that I have observed many young sportsmen look very queer, some actually tremble and one shed tears. But the traqueurs are at hand, and the largest and boldest of the wolves, placing themselves in front, are preparing for the fatal rush—one more charivari from the peasants and their sauce-pans decides them, when the whole troop bound forward, yelling and howling upon the line, in passing which a storm of balls and buck-shot salute and assail them in their course.

The death of from thirty to forty wolves is generally the result of the day's exertions, without counting the wounded, which always escape in greater or less numbers. The Government give a reward of twenty francs for every wolf, and twenty-five for every she-wolf, and these sums being immediately divided amongst the peasants, they return to their homes not a little pleased, singing their old hunting ballads, stopping occasionally by the way at some village inn for a glass, where they may be seen cutting capers, with the true peasant notions of the dance. On a fine day, with the blue sky above, the forest breathing perfume, and the sun shedding over it its golden rays, the passing game, the distant halloo! of the traqueurs, the gun-shots which suddenly rattle around you, the watching for and first view of the wolves, put the head and the heart in such a state of excitement, as once felt can never be forgotten. The May and December battues are, therefore, looked forward to with immense impatience; and nothing short of sudden death, or an injured limb, prevents the country-people from hastening with alacrity to the rendezvous.

Wolves are likewise hunted all the year round, with dogs, by gentlemen, in the neighbourhood of the forest. But this sport is very fatiguing and weary work, if that animal alone is employed; for nothing is so difficult as to get up with a cunning old wolf, whose sinewy limbs never tire, and whose wind never fails—who goes straight ahead, ten or fifteen miles, without looking behind him; if he meets with a Mare, or stream of water on his road, then your chance is indeed up,—for into it he plunges, and makes off again, quite as fresh as he was when he left his lair.

The best and most expeditious mode of taking a wolf is, to set a bloodhound on him, bred expressly for this particular sport; large greyhounds being placed in ambush, at proper distances, and slipped, when the wolf makes his appearance in crossing from one wood to another. These dogs, by their superior swiftness, are soon at his haunches, and worry and impede his flight, until their heavy friend the hound comes up; for the strongest greyhound could never manage a wolf, unless he was assisted in his meritorious work by dogs of large size and superior strength. The huntsmen, well mounted, follow and halloo on the hounds; every one runs, every one shouts, the forest echoes their cries, and wolf, dogs, and sportsmen pass and disappear like leaves in a whirlwind, or the demon hounds and huntsmen of the Hartz. And now the panting beast, with hair on end and foaming at the mouth, bitten in every part, is brought to bay—his hour is come—no longer able to fly, he sets his back against some rock or tree, and faces his numerous enemies.

It is then that the oldest huntsman of the party, in order to shorten his death-agony, and save the dogs from unnecessary wounds, dismounts, and, drawing a pistol from his hunting-belt, finishes his career before further mischief is done. When a ball hits a wolf and breaks one of his bones, he immediately gives a yell; but if he is dispatched with sticks and bludgeons, he makes no complaint. Stubborn, and apparently either insensible or resolute, Nature seems to have given him great powers of endurance in suffering pain. Having lost all hope of escape, he ceases to cry and complain; he remains on the defensive, bites in silence, and dies as he has lived. In a sheepfold the noise of his teeth while indulging his appetite is like the repeated crack of a whip. His bite is terrible.

The months of September and October, the period for cub-hunting, afford capital sport. The young wolves are not like the old ones, strong enough to take a straight course, and they consequently can rarely do more than run a ring; when tired, which is soon the case, they retire backwards into some hole or under a large stone, where they show their teeth and await, with a juvenile courage worthy of a better fate, the onset of their assailants. The mode of separating the cubs from their mother, who, with maternal tenderness (for that feeling exists even in a wolf), always offers to sacrifice her life for her young, is by turning loose two or three bloodhounds. These first distract her attention, and then pursue her so closely that at last she thinks it prudent to decamp, and seek safety in flight; when these dogs have fairly got her away, and their deep music dies away in the distance, others are laid on the scent of the cubs, and the sport ceases only with the death of the litter. A young wolf may be tamed; but it is not wise to place much confidence in his civilization: with age he resumes his nature, becomes ferocious, and sooner or later, should the occasion present itself, will return to his native woods;—for as water always flows towards the river, so the wolf always returns to his kind.

In the summer, the wolves, like the gypsies, have no fixed residence; they may then be met with in the standing barley or oats, the vineyards and fields; they sleep in the open country, and seldom seek the friendly shelter of the forest, except during the most scorching hours of the day. Towards the end of August I have often met them in the vineyards, apparently half drunk, scarcely able to walk, in short, quite unsteady on their legs, almost ploughing the ground up with their noses, and staring stupidly about them. Every well-kept vineyard ought to be as free from stones as possible, and therefore the peasants, when they weed, dig a trench about the vines, or prune them, always remove at the same time whatever stones or flints they may meet with; these are piled at the end of the vineyard in a heap of about twenty feet square and six feet high, called a meurger.

On these meurgers the breezes of summer waft every description of seed, and they are consequently soon covered with verdure, shrubs, brambles, and wild roses, which from a distance give them the appearance of a small copse or thicket. These elevated and shady spots are the favourite retreats of game in the middle of the day; here they love to repose and take their siesta in the cool—here the red partridges meet to have a gossip—hither the young rabbits scuttle to recover their various alarms, and the trembling hare also squats and conceals herself the moment a dog or a gun appears in the adjoining vineyard. Of course these green mounds have a corresponding value in the eyes of the sportsmen, who always find in them something to put up.

Often, therefore, walking gently on the soft ground, have I stolen to one of these meurgers, and throwing in a stone, generally turned out some partridges and rabbits that were there quietly ensconced; I have also, and greatly to my surprise, heard there the growl of a wolf, which, rising lazily amongst the bushes, stumbled and fell, and was evidently incapable of getting further. A salute from both barrels, with small shot, scarcely tickled his skin; but it brought him once more on his legs, though only to fall again,—when, having reloaded, I advanced on him and administered a double dose in his ear, which had the desired effect. The fact was, he was quite drunk, though not disorderly.

These wolves, during the ardent heats of August, suffer dreadfully from thirst; and finding no water, take to the vineyards, and endeavour to assuage it by eating large quantities of grapes, very cool, and no doubt very delightful at the time; but the treacherous juice ferments, Bacchanalian fumes soon infect their brain, and for several hours these gentlemen are for a time entirely deprived of their senses. What a field for Father Mathew; but never, I am certain, has the worthy Apostle of Temperance ever dreamed of offering the pledge to the wolves of Le Morvan—the rub would be to hang the medal round the necks of these Bacchanals of the forest.



CHAPTER XIX.

Wolf-hunting, an expensive amusement—The Traquenard—Mode of setting this trap—A night in the forest with Navarre—The young lover—Dreadful accident that befell him—His courage and efforts to escape—The fatal catastrophe—The poor mad mother.

Wolf-hunting in the forests is an expensive amusement, whether they are killed by the method I have described,—namely, of employing beaters, and shooting them when breaking through the line of sportsmen, or running them down with dogs. The peasants and traqueurs have to be paid, in the first case; hunters and hounds have to be purchased and maintained, in the second, without counting the innumerable incidental expenses which a kennel of hounds always brings in its train. This kind of establishment is too extravagant for our country-gentlemen, and thus it is that for one wolf killed in the great meetings, or with the dogs, thirty are taken in pits and snares, or by some species of stratagem.

Every small farmer or large proprietor, to protect his family and his cattle,—every shepherd, to protect himself and his flock, invokes to his aid the genius of strategy; and as the mind of man is a sponge full of expedients, from which once pressed by the hard fingers of necessity many an ingenious device is extracted, innumerable are the various seductive baits that in our plains and forests are placed in the way of the gluttonous appetite of the wolf; and I shall now describe the inventions that are more generally adopted.

The favourite trap employed in Le Morvan is the Traquenard. This is the most dangerous, and the strongest that is made, requiring two men to set it; it has springs of great power, which once touched, the jaws of the trap close with tremendous force. Each jaw, formed of a circle of iron, four or five feet in circumference, is furnished along its whole length with teeth shaped like those of a saw, but less sharp, which shut one within the other. To these redoubtable engines of destruction is attached an iron chain, six feet in length, and at the other end of it is a bar of iron with hooks; these hooks or grapnel, which catch at everything that comes in their way, impede the escape of the wolf when once seized, and prevent him from going any great distance from the spot where he has been caught. The trap should not be tied or fixed in any way, for then the wolf would probably in his first bound, his first frantic movement of terror, either break some part of it, or in his violent endeavours to escape, succeed, only leaving a leg behind him.

In placing the trap and chain, a little earth is taken away, so that both are on a level with the turf; after which, the jaws being opened, they are covered with leaves in as natural a manner as possible. Great care must be taken by the person who sets the trap that he does not touch it with his naked hand; this should invariably be done with a glove on, otherwise the wolf—always extremely difficult to catch by reason of his delicate sense of smell—would be awakened to his danger. The mode of taking the wolf by means of the Traquenard, is as follows:—A spot having been selected in the depths of the forest, and in a sombre pathway unfrequented by the beasts of prey, the trap is set about an hour before the sun goes down, and a dog, young pig, a sheep, or some other animal which has been dead a few days, is divided into five parts; one of the portions is suspended to the lower branch of the tree, under which the trap is set; and the other four, being each attached to a withe or the band of a faggot,—not rope, for in that the wolf detects the hand of man, and he hates the smell of the material,—are drawn by men along the ground in the direction of the four points of the compass. These men are mounted either on horseback, or on an ass, or they put on a pair of sabots and walk, each of them dragging after him, through the wood and along the unfrequented paths, his portion of the bait, stopping every now and then to let the soil over which it passes be as much as possible impregnated with the smell of the flesh on the verge of corruption.

The traineur should always walk as much as possible through those parts of the forest that are the clearest of underwood, for in these spots the wolf is least on his guard; and when he has thus traversed from 2,500 to 3,000 paces—the distance required in order to give the animal, (who will at first follow his track with caution and even suspicion,) time to regain his confidence—he stops, throws the bait over his shoulder, and walks home, leaving the result to chance, and the hunger of the savage game. When four or five other traps have been set for the same night, in a radius of three or four miles thus prepared, it rarely happens that some of these various lines—which intersect each other on every side and in every direction, taking in a considerable surface of ground—are not hit upon during the night by the roving wolves: and be sure that each wolf whose olfactories discern the scented line, and who at length arrives at the trap, is a wolf taken.

Well do I remember the fever of impatience with which I was seized, the first time I was present at the preparations for this sport, and the desire I had to know what would be the result of our machinations; so much so, indeed, that the arrangement being completed, I positively refused to return to the chateau;—climbing into a thick tree, distant about a hundred paces from the trap, I passed the whole night there on the watch, shivering in my jacket, sitting astride upon one branch, my feet on another, and Navarre at my side. Poor Navarre! he had in the beginning of the evening brought all his astronomical knowledge to bear upon me, with a view of proving that the night would be terribly unwholesome; that we should have a furious hurricane and be deluged with rain, blinded by the lightning, and terrified by the thunder; and that, in the way of eating and a cordial, the only thing he had in his game-bag was a sorry piece of black bread, hard enough to break the tooth of a boar. I had a stiff tustle with him before he gave in; but finding he could not damp the burning curiosity which devoured me, and that my ears were deaf to the somewhat rough music of his reasoning and his predictions, the worthy man at length closed the fountain of his eloquence, and, though growling and mumbling in an under tone at my juvenile obstinacy, which had deprived him of his bed and his supper, quietly took his seat in the tree; then drawing from the bottom of his pocket some tobacco and a short pipe—his consolation in his greatest misfortunes—he whiffed away, burying his irritated countenance in his breast by way of showing his vexation.

It seems to me but yesterday these eight hours passed in the forest in the silence of that starlight night, hid in the branches, and waiting for the wolves! We caught three, and nine galloped under the very oak in which we were seated. This midnight scene was exciting beyond description; and the worthy Navarre, notwithstanding his pipe, his fox-skin cap, and his goat-skin riding-coat, caught such a melancholy cold, that he did nothing but sneeze and hoop the whole of the next day, making more noise than all the dogs and cattle in the farm put together.

Wolf-hunting with traps has its dangers and its inconveniences, and the Traquenard must be used with great caution. Every morning it should be visited and shut; otherwise a man, a horse, a dog, or some other animal, may fall into it, and be taken. In order, therefore, as much as possible to prevent accidents, our peasants, farmers, and poachers, when using this kind of trap, always tie stones, or little pieces of dead wood, to the bushes and branches of the trees near the spot in which it is set; they likewise place the same kind of signal at the extremity of the pathway which leads to the trap, as a warning to those who may walk that way; and the peasants, who know what these signals dancing in the air with every puff of wind mean, turn aside, and take very good care how they proceed on their road.

In spite of all these precautions, however, very sad occurrences will sometimes happen in our forests. Some years ago a trap was placed in a deserted footway, and the usual precautions were taken of hanging stones and bits of wood in the approach to the path at either end. The same day, a young man of the neighbourhood, full of love and imprudence—upon the eve, in fact, of being entangled in the conjugal "I will"—anxious to present to his fiancee some turtle-doves and pigeons with rosy beaks, with whose whereabouts he was acquainted, left his home a little before sunset to surprise the birds on their nest; but he was late, the night closed in rapidly, and with the intention of shortening the road, instead of following the beaten one he took his way across the forest. Without in the least heeding the brambles and bushes which caught his legs, or the ditches and streams he was obliged to cross, he pressed on; and after a continued and sanguinary battle with the thorns, the stumps, the roots, and the long wild roses, came exactly on the path where the trap was set. The night was now nearly dark, and, in his agitation and hurry, thinking only of his doves and the loved one, he failed to observe that several little pieces of string were swinging to and fro in the breeze from the branches of a thicket near him. Dreadful indeed was it for him that he did not; for suddenly he felt a terrible shock, accompanied by most intense pain, the bones of his leg being apparently crushed to pieces—he was caught in the wolf-trap!

The first few moments of pain and suffering over, comprehending at once the danger of his position, he with great presence of mind collected all the strength he had, and by a determined effort endeavoured to open the serrated iron jaws which held him fast: but though despair is said to double the strength of a man, the trap refused to give up its prey; and as at the least movement the iron teeth buried themselves deeper and deeper with agonizing pain into his leg, and grated nearly on the bone, his sufferings became so intense that in a very few minutes he ceased from making any further attempts to release himself. Feeling this to be the case, he began to shout for help, but no one replied; and as the night drew in he was silent, fearing that his cries would attract the notice of some of the wolves that might be prowling in the neighbourhood, and resolved to wait patiently and with fortitude what fate willed—what he could not avert. He had under his coat a little hatchet, a weapon which the Morvinians constantly carry about with them, and thus in the event of his being attacked by the dreaded animals, he trusted to it to defend himself; but he was still not without hope that the wolves would not make their appearance.

The night lengthened; the moon rose, and shed her pale light over the forest. Immovable, with eyes and ears on the qui vive, his body in the most dreadful agony, he listened and waited: when, all at once, far—very far off, a confused murmur of indistinct sounds was heard. Approaching with rapidity, these murmurs became cries and yells; they were those of wolves—and not only wolves, but wolves on the track, which must ere a few minutes could elapse be upon him. A pang of horror, and a cold perspiration poured from his face;—but fear was not a part of his nature, and by almost superhuman efforts, and, in such an awful moment, forgetting all pain, he dragged himself and the trap towards an oak tree, against which he placed his back.

Here leaning with his left hand upon a stout staff he had with him when he fell, and having in his right his hatchet ready to strike, the young man, full of courage, after having offered up a short prayer to his God, and embraced, as it were, in his mind his poor old mother and his bride, awaited the horrible result, determined to show himself a true child of the forest, and meet his fate like a man. A few minutes more, and he was as if surrounded by a cordon of yellow flames, which, like so many Will-o'-the-wisps, danced about in all directions. These were the eyes of the monsters; the animals themselves, which he could not see, sent forth their horrible yells full in his face, and the smell of their horrid carcases was borne to him on the wind. Alas! the denouement of the tragedy approached. The wolves had hit upon the scented line of earth, and following it; hungry and enraged, were bounding here and there, and exciting each other. They had arrived at the baited spot....

What passed after this no one can tell—no eye saw but His above: but on the following morning when the Pere Seguin, for he was the unfortunate person who set the Traquenard, came to examine it, he found the trap at the foot of the oak deluged with blood, the bone of a human leg upright between the iron teeth, and all around, scattered about the turf and the path, a quantity of human remains: bits of hair, bones,—red and moist, as if the flesh had been but recently torn from them,—shreds of a coat, and other articles of clothing were also discovered near the spot; with the assistance of some dogs that were put on the scent, three wolves, their heads and bodies cut open with a hatchet, were found dying in the adjacent thickets. The bones of their victim were carried to the nearest church; and on the following day these mournful fragments, which had only a few hours before been full of life and youth and health, were committed to the earth.

When the venerated cure of the village, after previously endeavouring in every possible way by Christian exhortation to prepare his aged mother to hear the sad tale, informed her that these remnants of humanity was all that was left of her boy, she laughed—alas! it was the laugh of madness—reason had fled! Many a time have I met the aged creature strolling in a glade of the forest, or seated basking in the sun outside the door of her cottage. Her complexion was of the yellow paleness of some old parchment, she was always laughing and singing—always rocking in her arms a log of wood, a hank of hemp, or bundle of fern—objects which to her poor crazy eyes represented her child;—her child as it was in its tender years: she called it by his name, she kissed, embraced and dandled it, rocked it on her knees; and when she thought it should be tired, sang those lullabies which had soothed the slumbers of him who was now no more. I have witnessed the horrors of war, I have heard many a tragic story, but never has my heart been more touched with feelings of profound grief than the day on which I first met this poor creature—this widowed mother, then seventy years of age—singing and walking in the forest, carrying and dandling in her shrivelled arms a shawl rolled up; kissing and talking to the silent bundle, smiling on it,—sitting at the foot of a tree, and opening that bosom in which the springs of life had for years been dried, to nurse and nourish once more what seemed to her still her baby boy.

The morning after the dreadful catastrophe of which I have just spoken, the path in which this terrible tragedy took place was closed, and trees were planted along its length, so that no person could in future pass that way. But the Pere Seguin has often shown me the oak, at the foot of which during that fearful night the young peasant suffered such agonies, made such incredible efforts, and drew with such indomitable courage his last breath. This tree is still called by the peasants, "The Widow's Oak," or, "The Oak of the Wolves."



CHAPTER XX.

Shooting wolves in the summer—The most approved baits to attract them—Fatal error—Hut-shooting—Silent joviality—The approach of the wolves—The first volley—The retreat—The final slaughter—The sportsman's reward—The farm-yard near St. Hibaut—The dead colt—The onset—Scene in the morning—Horrible accident—The gallant farmer—Death of the wolves, the dogs, and the peasant—The wolf-skin drum—Anathema of the naturalists.

When the sportsman does not absolutely care about sleeping in his own bed, and will not be denied the pleasure of shooting a wolf himself, a drag is run similar to those we have already mentioned, but other parts of the proceedings are conducted in a manner widely different. In the first place, there is no trap; then, instead of the piece of flesh, the great attraction, being put in an obscure and hidden path, it should, on the contrary, be placed in an open spot, on the border of a wood, in a glade, or in a field on the verge of the forest, in order that the sportsman who is laying in wait, in ambush, may be able to see what is passing; he must, too, conceal himself as much as possible, either in a thicket under the foliage, in a hut made with the boughs of trees, or in a hole dug in the ground; but he should always be so placed that he is against the wind, and if the moon is up he ought to take especial care that he is in the shade.

But it sometimes happens that the sportsman, at a moment when there is no time to run a drag,—for instance, after dinner when smoking a cigar, he suddenly takes it into his head to kill a wolf, and it is too late to bait the spot; nevertheless the hunter will have nothing less than his wolf. Before leaving home, therefore, he orders his servant to bring him a duck; this he puts into his pocket, and shouldering his gun, seeks the depths of the forest alone. Having found a favourable spot,—a place where four roads meet is that, if possible, generally chosen,—he hangs the unfortunate duck by the leg to the branch of a neighbouring tree, which, as if divining the part that he is intended to play in the piece, flaps his wings, and begins to cry and quack most vehemently.

Extraordinary as it may appear, it is well known that the cries of the duck and the goose are those most readily heard by a wolf, and consequently it is by no means a rare occurrence to see one of these animals arrive. An unweaned lamb, which is always bleating for its mother, is also an excellent decoy-bait to attract them.

In the months of May and June, when the sportsman happens to tumble upon a she-wolf, the cubs of which are suckling, a drag may be run with one of them; the mother will for certain follow the track, and, if you are not properly on your guard, and well prepared to receive her, it is equally certain she will play you a very unpleasant trick, and make you feel that it is not wise to excite the maternal tenderness of a wild animal. But it is in winter that the wolves are more especially dangerous, and it is in this rough season that war to the knife is declared against them. The peasants, as well the wood-cutters and charcoal-burners of the forest, having then no employment, assemble in small bands, furnish themselves with provisions for several days, and armed with ponderous and clumsy fowling-pieces, go in search of the wild cat and the wolf, the roebuck and the boar.

On these occasions, as in all those where fire-arms are used, the chapter of accidents is seldom without a page relating some sad history. Two young men of the village of Akin, near Vezelay, one of whom was engaged to the sister of his companion, having made their arrangements, set out to hunt together in this manner, trusting that a heavy bag might pay for the expenses of the wedding fete. As luck would have it, they soon fell upon the traces of a boar, and separating at the entrance of a dark ravine, to beat for and watch the animal, were lost to view. But a short time had elapsed when the young man who was about to be married observing, though not clearly, between the trees and bushes a large black mass, which moved to and fro, and which he imagined was the boar listening, brought his gun to his shoulder, and, firing, lodged two iron slugs in the body of his comrade, who, advancing towards him, his shoulders being covered with a black sheepskin, had stooped down for a few seconds to tie the strings of his leggings, or his shoes.

When the trees are devoid of foliage and the snow covers the ground, when the forest is melancholy and cold, and the wolves famished with hunger, a rather original mode of taking them by night is adopted. A few days previously to the one appointed for the purpose, a large glade in the very thickest part of the forest having been selected, a carpenter and his assistant, with a well-furnished bag of tools, start for the spot. There, choosing some suitable trees, or branches of young pollards, they cut down a sufficient number, place them in the ground so as to form a hut of twelve yards square, leaving between each tree an interval of about four inches; strengthening the edifice by beams at the base, and boards nailed transversely seven feet from the ground.

This open hut thus prepared, and which, at fifty paces distance, ought not, if well constructed, to be distinguishable from the trees, is left open to the inspection of the beasts of the forest for several nights in succession, in order that they, always suspicious of the most trifling circumstance, may get accustomed to it. Two or three ducks, a goose, and sometimes a sheep, are fastened during these nights near the hut, with a view of alluring the wolves and inducing them to visit the mansion.

The day, or rather the appointed evening, having arrived (a star or moonlight night being selected), the assembled huntsmen, and a long line of servants, betake themselves to the forest, leading by the head four calves, and carrying with them a cask of cold meat, a hamper of wine, a box of cigars, and a horse-load of pale cogniac—a few camels and dromedaries added to this cavalcade, and one would have a complete picture of a tribe of Bedouins preparing to pass the Great Desert. Arrived in the forest about nightfall, and well and duly shut up in their Gibraltar of wood, the sportsmen may eat, drink, and smoke, and converse in an undertone; but a heavy fine is invariably inflicted on those who make the least noise. No one is permitted to sneeze, talk loud, or laugh; as to blowing one's nasal organ vigorously, the thing is absolutely forbidden; no one is allowed to have a cold, much less an influenza, for at least eight hours, and every sportsman is careful that the wine and the viands take each their proper line of road; if either should unfortunately diverge, the gentleman must choke rather than cough—as to the servants, they do every thing by gesture and signal; and woe betide the John that speaks—chance may be, his tongue is thrown to the wolves.

When night has set in, the four calves are led out from the stockade and fastened to strong posts which have been fixed in front of each face of the hut. Silence now reigns supreme, and the wolves,—the spur of famine in their insides, mad in short with hunger,—begin to sniff the breeze and run their noses over the rank dewy grass of the underwood. At this point of my narrative I must bespeak the forbearance of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and beg them to read on to the end, and weigh well the question and the result, before they bring an action against me for what follows. The calves in question having been placed, they each—must I write it?—receive an incision in the neck, the effect of which is that the blood flows slowly, and they bleat without ceasing;—such is the custom, as it is said, with butchers to make veal white and pleasing to the eye of the epicure; a really inhuman habit—but when the deed is done with a view to the extermination of wolves, I think there is little doubt but Mr. Martin himself would have used a fleam in the cause.

This operation over, the sportsmen divide, post themselves, with their guns ready, on each side of the hut, and wait with beating hearts the arrival of the expected four-footed visitors. Nine o'clock passes—ten, half-past—not a sound is heard in the forest; the sportsmen who look out on the snowy scene around them observe nothing; all without is dreary silence, broken at intervals by the poor ruminating creatures in front, the cry of a solitary owl, the fall of some dead branch which age and the tempest has separated from the giant oak, the sudden spring of the squirrel awakened by the noise, and, in the interior of the cabin, by the soft gurgling of the ruby wine escaping joyfully from its glass prison-house, to cheer the heart of the impatient chasseur—and who knows better than he how to empty a flask of genuine Burgundy?

We will, therefore, imagine some of the party enjoying themselves after this fashion; when suddenly the calves are heard to rise, to bellow and groan, strain at the ropes with which they are fastened, and endeavour to escape; every cigar is at once extinguished, the comic changes to the serious—the wolves are on the scent. A few minutes more, and black spots are seen dotted about here and there on the snow; these increase in number and approach,—they are the wolves that observe and listen; the frantic terror of the calves is redoubled; the black spots become larger, they advance still nearer, and at length the animals may clearly be distinguished. The wolves imagine the calves have come astray. What a charming thing if they could carry them off to the dark ravines they inhabit! The great square hut, silent as Harpocrates, and the smell of man, make them hesitate; but a hunger of many days (and we know that man, the image of his Maker, will eat man, his fellow, in his extremity) and the smell of blood prevail and overcome their fears. Four or five wolves rush forward, and endeavour to remove the calves; the attempt is vain, the ropes are strong, and so are the posts to which the animals are fastened: unable, therefore, to succeed, and stretched across their dying victims, they plunge their ravenous jaws into the palpitating flesh, forget their alarm in so delicious a supper, and eat and drink to their heart's content. The rest of the pack thus encouraged, and afraid of being too late, now advance at a gallop to share in the repast.

It is then, and amid the yells, the disputes, and the bloody encounters occasioned by a division of the spoil, that the sportsmen open their fire. The first volley puts the wolves to flight, and they retire to a short distance. But again all is silent, they soon return to the carcases they cannot make up their minds to desert; other wolves also, that have been in the rear, attracted by the cries and smell of their wounded companions, and the blood of the calves, arrive and take part in the strife, so that during several hours the forest echoes with repeated volleys. At length the calves are fairly eaten up, when the fortunate survivors of the fray, gorged and satiated, take to flight, and disappear like a band of black demons into the recesses of the forest. It is then the sportsmen leave their hut, stretch their limbs, count the dead, dispatch their wounded enemies, and, clothed in thick fur cloaks, sit as if at the bivouac round a large fire, passing the remaining hours of the night in emptying more bottles, excavating more pies, drinking more punch, and telling better stories than those which I have had the pleasure of laying before the reader.

The morning has scarcely dawned and the party is on the road home, when a crowd of peasants arrive with their dogs, who, following the bloody traces of the wolves in the snow, dispatch those which, though wounded, have been able to leave the spot—for the sight of a dead wolf is to a Morvinian as delightful as the possession of one is profitable. Having killed his ferocious enemy, the peasant cuts off his head and his four feet, which he fastens crosswise at the end of his staff; then arraying himself in his best and most showy clothes, his hat ornamented with flowers and ribbons streaming in the breeze, like those in the cap of an English recruit, he is off, the left foot foremost, to the mayor of his parish to receive the reward offered by the government. But his road to his worship is anything but direct; he performs what he terms the grand tour, visits every village in his way, makes his bow to the women, calls at the sheep-farms and the chateaux, showing, with no little pride and exultation, his wolf's head, and receives at each some acknowledgment for the service he has rendered the community,—money, a dozen of eggs, a pound of lard, a bit of pork, bread, flour, flax, or salt, &c. He who kills the wolf, and carries the spoils as a trophy in this manner, is accompanied by the musician of the neighbourhood, who marches before him blowing his bagpipe with the force of an ox; behind him is one of the strongest men of the village, with a large bag on each shoulder, who carries the presents, and imitates the cry and yells of a wolf when the piper is tired. It will not therefore be considered astonishing if it is always with renewed pleasure that a peasant of Le Morvan kills a wolf; and though one becomes tired, blaze with almost everything in this mortal world, it is not the case when a gallant fellow is seen entering a village carrying the head of this hideous monster on his pole. This trophy, with tongue distended and mouth kept wide open by a piece of wood to show his long yellow teeth, frightens all the little children that see it.

There are many other methods of taking the wolf, with a hook, a net, with tame she-wolves a la loge, the poacher's method, in pits, and in a washing-tub by the side of a pond, &c. But a description of these several modes would occupy too much space. I cannot, however, before taking a final leave of this subject, resist the temptation to relate one last and most fearful incident—a frightful illustration of the horrors to which a country infested by this animal is liable. It happened during my sojourn at St. Hibaut, at a farm in that neighbourhood.

It was in the month of February, the winter was exceedingly severe, and three feet of snow still covered the mountains; all communication between the villages had ceased, and bands of hungry wolves besieged the farms in the heart of the woods.

The forest of La Madeleine, particularly full of ravines and dark thickets, small hamlets, and solitary houses, was overrun with these insatiable and remorseless brutes. Travellers had been devoured in the passes of La Goulotte, and mangled and torn in the ravines of Lingou. No one dared venture into the country when night approached.

The farm of which I am about to speak stands just on the borders of the forest of La Madeleine, in the midst of pastures and patches of furze; it was full of cattle and sheep, and by the time the stars were brilliantly illuminating the dark arch of heaven, was frequently surrounded by troops of wolves, scratching under the walls, and loudly demanding the trifling alms of a horse, an ox, or a man. It so happened that at this time one of the farmer's colts died, and he determined, if possible, to use it as a bait, which would provide him the opportunity of destroying some of his nocturnal visitors.

For this purpose he placed the dead body in the middle of his court-yard, and having fastened weights to its neck and legs, to prevent the wolves from dragging it away, he set the principal gate open, but so arranged with cords and pulleys that it could be closed at any required moment. Night came on; the house was shut up, the candles extinguished, the stables barricaded, the dogs brought in-doors and muzzled to prevent them from barking, and, in the bright starlight, on some clean straw, the better to attract attention, lay the dead body of the colt—the gate, as we have said, being open. All was ready, all within on the watch, when about ten o'clock the wolves were heard in the distance; they approached, smelt, looked, listened, grumbled, and distrusting the open gate, paused; not one would enter. Profound was the silence and excitement in the house. Hunger at last overcame prudence and mistrust. Their savage cries were renewed; they became more and more impatient and exasperated,—how was it possible to resist a piece of young horseflesh? The most forward, probably the captain of the band, could hold out no longer, and to show his fellows he was worthy to be their leader, he advanced alone, passed the Rubicon, went up to the colt, tore away a large piece of his chest, and, proud of his achievement, set off at speed with his booty between his teeth. The other wolves, seeing him escape in safety, regained their confidence, and one, two, three, six, eight wolves were soon gathered round the animal, but, though eating as fast as they could, they remained with ears erect, and each eye still on the gate.

Eight wolves! The farmer thought it a respectable number, and whistled, when the four men at the ropes hauling instantly, the large folding-gates rolled to, and closed in the stillness with the noise of thunder,—the wolves were prisoners. Startled and terrified at finding themselves caught, they at once deserted the small remains of the colt, creeping about in all directions in search of some outlet by which they might escape, or some hole to hide in, while the farmer, having secured them, sent his household to bed, putting off their destruction till sunrise.

The morning dawned, and with the first rays of light master and men, for whom the event was a perfect fete, set some ladders against the walls of the court, and from them, as well as the windows, fired volleys on the entrapped wolves. Unable to resist, the animals for some time hurried hither and thither, crouching in every nook and corner of the yard: but the wounds from balls which reached them behind the stones, or under the carts, soon turned their fear into rage. They began to make alarming leaps, and the most dreadful yells. The work of destruction went on but slowly;—the men were but indifferent shots, the wolves never an instant at rest;—and the rapidity and perseverance with which they continued to gallop round, or leap from side to side of the yard, as if in a cage, essentially baffled the endeavours of their enemies.

The affair was in this way becoming tedious, when an unlooked-for misfortune threw a dreadful gloom over the whole scene.

The ladder used by one of the party being too short, the young man placed himself on the wall, as if in a saddle, to have a better opportunity of taking aim; when one of the wolves, the largest, strongest, and most exasperated, suddenly bounded at the wall, as if to clear it, but failed; subsequently the animal attempted to climb up by means of the unhewn stones, like a cat, and though he again failed, reached high enough almost to seize with his sharp teeth the foot of the unfortunate lad. Terrified at this he raised his leg to avoid the brute—lost his balance—and the same moment fell with a heart-rending scream into the court below. Each and all the wolves turned like lightning on their helpless, hopeless victim, and a cry of horror was heard on every side.

The storm of leaden hail ceased: no man dared fire again, and yet something must be done, for the monsters were devouring their unhappy fellow-servant. Listening only to the dictates of courage and humanity, the noble-hearted farmer, gun in hand, leaped at once into the yard, and his men all followed his heroic example. A general and frightful conflict ensued. The scene which then took place defies every attempt at description. No pen could adequately place before the reader the awful incidents that succeeded. He must, if he can, imagine the howling of the wolves, the piteous cries of the lacerated and dying youth, the imprecations of the men, the neighing of the horses and roaring of the bulls in the stables; and, more than all, the crying and lamentations of the women and children in the house—a fearful chorus—such as happily few, very few persons were ever doomed to hear. At last the farmer's wife, a powerful and resolute woman, with great presence of mind unmuzzled the dogs, and threw them from a window into the yard. This most useful reinforcement with their vigorous attacks and loud barking completed the tumult and the tragedy. In twenty minutes the eight wolves were dead, and with them half the faithful dogs. The poor unfortunate lad, his throat torn open, was dead; his courageous, though unsuccessful defenders, were all more or less wounded, and the gallant farmer's left hand so injured, that as soon as surgical assistance could be procured for him, amputation was found to be necessary.

The monsters, stretched side by side in the yard, were also stone dead, every one of them; but not a voice on the farm raised the heart-stirring shout of victory. Consternation and gloom reigned over it, and it was long indeed ere the voice of mourning deserted its walls.

The skin of the wolf is strong and durable; the woodmen, braconniers, and mountaineers, make cloaks and caps of it, the tail being left on the latter to fall over the ear by way of ornament; they likewise cover with it the outside of their game-bags. They tan it also, and excellent shoes are made of the leather, soft and light for summer wear,—it is likewise made into parchment, not to write the history of their ancestors upon, but to cover small drums, the rattle of which, on fairdays and fetes is sure to set the peasants dancing. This fact is alluded to in a song of our province, written by a shepherd-poet, in the pleasing dialect of Le Morvan, of which the following is a free translation:

Hark! 'tis the wolf-skin drum, We come! We come! Yes, come with me sweet girl, and fair As rosebud wild that scents the air. The heavens are bright, the stars are shining, Thy lovely form my arms entwining; Together let us lead the dance Deep in thy sylvan haunts, dear France! Hark! I hear those sounds again, The wolf-skin drum, the pipers' strain.

Wealthy persons use a wolf-skin for a carriage-rug, and in the rainy season as a mat at the door of a room. "There is nothing good in the wolf," says Buffon, "he has a base low look—a savage aspect, a terrible voice, an insupportable smell, a nature brutal and ferocious, and a body so foul and unclean that no animal or reptile will touch his flesh. It is only a wolf that can eat a wolf." "No animal," writes Cuvier, "so richly merits destruction as the wolf." With these two funeral orations on these incarnate fiends of Natural History, I shall close this chapter, remarking that the anathema bestowed on them by Buffon is not quite correct, for if wolves are dangerous, and enemies to the public weal, and "there is nothing good" in them during their lives, they, at least, become useful after their death.



CHAPTER XXI.

Fishing in Le Morvan—The naturalists—The Gour of Akin—The English lady—The mountain streams—Chateau de Chatelux—Sermiselle—New mode of killing pike—Pierre Pertuis—The rocks and whirlpool there—The syrens of the grotto—Chateau des Panolas—The Cousin—The ponds of Marot and lakes of Lomervo—Mode of taking fish with live trimmers—The Scotch farmer.

Having disposed of the quadrupeds of Le Morvan, I must enlarge a little upon the finny tribe of my native province, who would, I feel sure, be not a little annoyed if after having mentioned nearly every other creature capable of affording amusement to the sportsman I were to pass them over in silence. Besides, the shade of Izaak Walton would haunt me, and his disciples no doubt wish me well hooked, if I omitted to give them a chapter on angling,—but it shall be short, and I will avoid all scientific discussion. Theories sufficient have been hazarded, and books written without number from the days of old Aristotle, who arranged them in three great divisions, the Cetaceous, the Cartilaginous, and the Spinous; down to Gmelin, who divided them into six orders, the Apodal, the Jugular, the Thoracic, the Abdominal, the Branchiostagous, and the Chondropterygious.

How men, learned and scientific men, can be so barbarous as to invent such grotesque names as these is surprizing, or why Apicius should be remembered for having been the first to teach mankind how to suffocate fish in Carthaginian pickle; or Quin, for having discovered a sauce for John Dories; or Mrs. Glasse, for an eel pie; or M. Soyer, celebrated for depriving barbel of their sight, in order to make them grow fatter, and be more acceptable to the epicure. Into this wilderness of discoveries, I have no intention of introducing you, gentle reader. The wisest plan is to cook and eat your fish in the ordinary mode—fry, broil, bake, boil, or grill; and call a perch, a perch, not a thoracic; a pike, a pike, &c., and pay little attention either to cooks or naturalists.

Le Morvan, intersected by numerous rivers, streams, and runs of water, in the liquid depths of which the various species of the fresh-water fishy-family are found from the powerful, swift, and travelled salmon, to the modest little gudgeon that stays quietly at home, is a country where the angler may live in a state of perpetual jubilee; the carp, the eel, and the pike attain an enormous size, particularly near the dams and flood-gates, where the depth of water is great, and in the Gours or water-courses which, diverging at several points on the stream, are constructed for supplying the flour and paper-mills with water.

The punters of Richmond, Hampton Court, and Chertsey, with their magnificent tackle, gentles, ground-bait, and comfortable chair, &c., would be astonished to see the quantities of fish that are taken in one of these Gours by a half-naked peasant, with a line as thick as packthread, during a sultry tempestuous evening in the month of June; from thirty to forty pounds' weight of carp and eels is by no means an unusual take,—Apodal and Abdominal, as the learned Gmelin would say.

These Gours are perfect jewels in the eyes of our fishermen; on very great occasions, for instance, when the miller marries, or an infant miller makes his appearance, if the occurrence should happen during the summer season, the flood-gates of the Gours are opened, when the waters being let off to within a few inches of the bottom, the quantity of fish taken with the casting-net is enormous. In the large Gour of Akin, the longest, the deepest, and containing more fish than any on the Cure or the Cousin, which I mention as representing the ten or twelve second-rate rivers of Le Morvan, I have seen as much as four horse-loads of fish taken, though every fish under two pounds was thrown back. The average depth of water in these rivers is from three to four feet, except near the dams and flood-gates, where it is from twelve to thirteen. With rivers so well supplied, sport is invariably obtained; so that patience, a virtue generally considered absolutely necessary in the angler, is scarcely required here, and fishing is actually a pastime of the beau sexe.

Well do I remember the astonishment, the pleasure, the delicious joy of a young English lady we had the good fortune to have with us at Vezelay, some few years since (where, by-the-bye, she made quite a sensation), when for the first time, and seated comfortably upon the soft turf by the river side, she gracefully threw her line into the great Gour of Akin; the bait had scarcely sunk, when the float was dancing about like a dervish, and finally disappeared; the lady pulled, the fish resisted; excited beyond measure, she redoubled her efforts, and tugging away with both hands, at length drew from his watery home a large carp, which flying through the air, described a splendid parabola, and landed in the adjoining field, to the great joy of the young lady, who showed her white teeth and laughed with might and main. But the poor devil of a servant to whom was confided the delicate task of impaling the bait, disentangling the line, and searching for the fish, when thus projected over the lady's head into the long grass behind her, had plenty to do I can aver, and did anything but laugh.

Near the forests and the hills the rivers are much more shallow, more clear and limpid, and flow, dance, and bubble over a gravelly bottom or golden sands. In these the voracious trout abounds; he may be seen allowing himself to be lazily rocked by the eddy, by the twirling current, or reposing under the shadow of the large rocks, which, detached from the adjacent mountains, have fallen into the river, and been arrested in their course; here he waits for the delicious May-fly, and the fisherman's basket is soon filled—so soon that a celebrated doctor in our neighbourhood, whose house is situated near one of these streams, used to send his servant every morning to take a fresh dish for his breakfast. The largest and the best trout are found near Chatelux, in the heart of the Morvan,—an old chateau, on the summit of a high rock, ornamented with towers and turrets, and surrounded by thick and solitary woods, in itself a lion worth seeing.

The present Count de Chatelux was aide-de-camp to Louis Phillipe, and a great friend of that sovereign. The river Cure flows at the foot of the hill on which the castle is situated, and its bed at this part is frequently divided, and forms many little islets, full of flowering shrubs and forest trees, which give the landscape a pleasing and picturesque appearance. From hence, for nearly twelve miles, roach, dace, chub, and trout are numerous, and take the fly well.

Besides the Gours we have mentioned, there are three spots in the Morvan that deserve attention in connection with fishing. These are Sermiselle, Pierre Pertuis, and the Chateau des Panolas. Sermiselle, at the junction of the Cure and the Cousin, at which point the road from Paris to Lyons passes, is a charming village, full of life and gaiety. At this spot the river begins to make a respectable figure; deep, solemn, and silent, it seems proud of its boats and ferries; but its waters have not that transparent appearance, that vivacious, laughing, and brawling character which distinguished them some miles further up. The fish in like manner resemble the stream; there are in this part monstrous carp, majestic eels, and solemn pike; and the line should be doubly strong if the angler is desirous of ever seeing a fish, or his hooks again.

At some distance above Sermiselle, where the silence and solitude of the country still reign, a very curious mode of fishing is adopted during the burning heat of the summer months. About mid-day, when the sun in all its power shoots his golden rays perpendicularly on the waters, illuminating every large hole even in the profoundest depths, the large fish leave them, and, ascending to the surface, remain under the cool shade of the trees, watching for whatever tit-bit or delicacy the stream may bring with it, while others prefer a quiet saunter, or, with the dorsal fin above the water, lie so still and stationary near some lily or other aquatic plant, that they seem perfectly asleep.

The enthusiastic sportsman, who fears neither storms nor a coup-de-soleil, makes his appearance about this time, without, it is true, either fishing-rod, lines, worms, flies, or bait of any description, but having under his left arm a double-barrel gun, in his right hand a large cabbage, and at his heels a clever poodle. The fisherman, or the huntsman, I scarcely know which to call him, now duly reconnoitres the river, fixes upon some tree, the large and lower branches of which spread over it, ascends with his gun and his cabbage, and having taken up an equestrian position upon one of the projecting arms, examines the surface of the deep stream below him. He has not been long on his perch when he perceives a stately pike paddling up the river; a leaf is instantly broken off the cabbage, and when the Branchiostagous has approached sufficiently near, is thrown into the water; frightened, the voracious fish at once disappears, but shortly after rises, and grateful to the unknown and kind friend who has sent him this admirable parasol, he goes towards it, and after pushing it about for a few seconds with his nose, finally places himself comfortably under its protecting shade. The sportsman, watching the animated gyrations of his cabbage-leaf, immediately fires, when the poodle, whose sagacity is quite equal to that of his master, plunges into the water, and if the fish is either dead or severely wounded fails not to bring out with him the scaly morsel; thus so long as the heavens are bright and blue, the water is warm, the large fish choose to promenade in the sun, and the sportsman's powers of climbing hold out, the sport continues. Sometimes the poodle and the fish have a very sharp struggle, and then the fun is great indeed, unless by chance the sportsman should unfortunately miss his hold in the midst of his laughter, and drop head-foremost into the water with his cabbage and his double-barrel.

Pierre Pertuis on the Cure, is also a famous place for fishing, and an extraordinary spot, and the Morvinian peasant, a highly poetically-flavoured individual, has made it the theatre of some very fantastic scenes. Imagine a yellow rock, of gigantic height, terminating in a point, with its sides full of fissures, holes, and crevices, inhabited by crows, owls, and bats, having its base in the river and its summit crowned with a rough chevelure of brambles and large creeping plants. The lower part of this rock is intersected by holes, through which the water rushes, tumbles, and whirls. The peasants pretend that the river near the rock cannot be fathomed, and that this particular spot is inhabited by fairies, nymphs, syrens, and other amiable ladies of this description, who have superb voices, and sing from the interior of their grottos delicious melodies of the other world, with the charitable intention of attracting the passing traveller or fisherman, and drowning him in the whirlpool beneath—a fate that would certainly be inevitable, if the attraction in question could bring them within its vortex, for certain it is that neither sheep-dogs or cattle which have fallen in, or been drawn within reach of its power, have ever been seen again. When the tempest rages here, the wind, rushing into the holes and fissures, produces a kind of moaning AEolian noise, and this with the cries of the owls and the rooks when the mistral blows and they have the rheumatism, produces, and no wonder, a superstitious feeling of awe in the mind of the ignorant peasant.

On the Cousin, which flows majestically through some of the most magnificent pastures in the world, and on the summit of a large hill, stands the charming Chateau des Panolas, the towers and walls of which, covered with pointed roofs and weather-cocks, and surrounded by domes, belvederes, and old-fashioned dovecots, give it at a distance the appearance of some oriental building. The weather-cocks in particular are of the most fanciful and grotesque designs, and it is said, and I should think there can be no doubt of the fact, that in no other structure have so many been seen together: it is calculated there are no less than three hundred. In going and returning from the forest, many a time have I and my friends, in the hey-day of youthful iniquities, knocked one of them off with a ball from our guns, to the great anger of the proprietor, who threatened us with his mahogany crutch from the hall door.

In the great ponds of Marot, and in the lakes of Lomervo—immense liquid plains, deep and surrounded in their whole circumference by a forest of green rushes, water-lilies, flags, and many other aquatic plants, forming a wall of verdure—the enormous quantity of fish of every kind is almost incredible. Nor is this extraordinary, for the waters of at least a dozen streams from the mountains, which swarm with life, fall into these vast reservoirs, and they are only fished once in every five years. This is a delectable spot for fishermen; but, on the other hand, as the value of these sheets of water is well understood by their proprietors, they are sharply looked after by them and their keepers, and it is almost as difficult to find an opportunity of throwing a line during the day, as it is for a poacher to throw a casting net on a moonlight night.

Nevertheless, as the appropriation of other people's property has an exquisite charm for some temperaments,—as a stolen apple to a child's palate is much more delightful than one that is not—the demon of acquisitiveness is always leaning over a man's shoulder,—that is to say, a poacher's shoulder, or even that of a gentleman with poaching tastes and inclinations,—to breathe in his ear bad advice. As to the peasants in the neighbourhood, they are always consulting together, or inventing some method by which they may circumvent the proprietors and appropriate their fish to themselves.

One of the happiest discoveries of the kind I ever heard of,—not the most recent but the best,—is the following. Every person in the possession of a cottage, possesses also a few ducks and geese, which paddle about their humble habitations. A man who has an itching for the thing, and who desires to become a pond-skimmer, as they are called, carefully selects from his squadron of palmipedes, the strongest, the most intelligent duck or goose of the party; his choice made, he immediately sets to work to give him the education befitting a bird destined for so honourable and diplomatic an employment.

After very many trials, lessons, and lectures, more or less difficult and tedious, the bird is taught to swim to a distance right ahead—to turn to one side when his master sings, and return to him when he whistles. These two primary and elementary movements, which appear so very natural, demand, nevertheless, wonderful patience, and no little cleverness and tact in the professor to instil—for his pupils, be it remembered, are ducks and geese—and furnishes an example of how the hope and love of gain has its effect on mankind. These very peasants, who never would take the trouble to learn their letters—only twenty-four—who would not many of them go two miles to learn how to sign their own names, pass whole days in the gray waters of these marshes, more often than not up to their waists in mud, whistling and singing and twitching the legs of their unfortunate birds, and nearly pulling them off with a string, when they either do not comprehend, or obey as quickly as they might, the orders they receive.

Dozens of ducks and geese that would in London or Paris be considered highly curious and infinitely wiser than any of their species—even those of the Capitol—are thus trained every year in Le Morvan, without any one giving them a thought, and may be purchased, education included, for two shillings a piece. When these winged students are so thoroughly qualified for their duties, that they can go through their exercise without a mistake, and are considered worthy of taking the field, the peasant puts them into his bag, and setting off very early in the morning to one of the great ponds I have mentioned, conceals himself behind a thick tufty curtain of flags, from whence he can see without being seen.

Here, opening his bag, he takes out the half suffocated ducks or geese, which are glad enough to find themselves once more on their favourite element; and the intelligent birds have scarcely regained their liberty when the peasant commences his ballad, and immediately the anchor is apeak and they are off; he sings, he whistles, and they turn, like two well-manned frigates, and come back to him without a moment's delay. The act is so natural, so simple, that no one can be attracted by it; nor is it possible to suspect a goose or a duck with its head down searching for food, that paddles about in the weeds or on the shore, or dabbles amongst the rushes. Should the keeper appear, the peasant is sure to be found lying on his back half asleep, or singing or whistling, as if mocking the lark in the clear blue sky above him.

Nevertheless, this goose, this duck, and this man are first-rate thieves,—cracksmen of their class; for the peasant, before he confides his poultry to the waves, makes their toilette; sliding under the left wing and over the right, across the body, like a soldier's belt, a strong and well-baited pike-hook. Thus equipped and ready for the start, the pirate birds leave on their buccaneering expedition; but they are scarcely a stone's throw from the shore, and well clear of the little islands of flags, when a hungry pike, observing the delicious frog towing in the rear, seizes it, and makes off to his hole, to gorge the bait at his leisure. More easily thought than done;—the goose stoutly resists, and refuses to accompany the fresh-water shark to his weedy home. A warm and obstinate engagement is the result; the peasant watches, with approving eye, the embarassment of his feathered accomplice, until he thinks it time to put an end to the scrimmage, when he whistles like an easterly wind in a passion. The goose, rather encumbered by the carnivorous gentleman below him, endeavours for some time but in vain to obey the signal; he flaps his wings, works away with his legs, and cackles without ceasing. The poacher encourages him with another whistle, and at length the bird, in spite of all his adversary's attempts to the contrary, leads the "greedy game of the deep" to the shore, and delivers it to his master. This is, certainly, a very curious mode of taking pike, and the live trimmer looks very puzzled when the voracious fish is hooked; but the following anecdote, taken from the scrap-book of Mr. M'Diarmid, shows that a Scotchman once adopted the same method, though for a different reason. "Several years ago," he writes, "a farmer, living in the immediate neighbourhood of Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire, kept a gander, who not only had a great trick of wandering himself, but also delighted in piloting forth his cackling harem, to weary themselves in circumnavigating their native lake, or in straying amidst forbidden fields on the opposite shore. Wishing to check this flagrant habit, the farmer one day seized the gander just as he was about to spring upon the blue bosom of his favourite element, and tying a large fish-hook to his leg, to which was attached part of a dead frog, he suffered him to proceed upon his voyage of discovery. As had been anticipated, this bait soon caught the eye of a ravenous pike, which swallowing the deadly hook, not only arrested the progress of the astonished gander, but forced him to perform half-a-dozen summersets on the surface of the water! For some time, the struggle was most amusing—the fish pulling, and the bird screaming with all its might,—the one attempting to fly, and the other to swim, from the invisible enemy—the gander one moment losing and the next regaining his centre of gravity, and casting between whiles many a rueful look at his snow-white fleet of geese and goslings, who cackled out their sympathy for their afflicted commodore. At length Victory declared in favour of the feathered angler, who, bearing away for the nearest shore, landed on the smooth green grass one of the finest pike ever caught in the Castle Loch."

This adventure is said to have cured the gander of his desperate propensity for wandering.



CHAPTER XXII.

Village fetes—The first of May—The religious festivals—The Fete Dieu—Appearance of the streets—The altars erected in them—Procession from the church—Country fairs—The book-stalls at them—Pictures of the Roman Catholic Church—Before the Vendange—Proprietors' hopes and fears—Shooting in the vineyards—The first day of the Vendange—Appearance of the country—Influx of visitors at this season—The consequences—Herminie—Her sad history—Le Morvan—Recommended to the English traveller—Lord Brougham and Cannes—Contrast between it and Le Morvan.

One of the happiest and most useful customs established by our ancestors, was, without doubt, the village fete—the periodical festival that takes place in every hamlet, and at which the inhabitants of the adjoining communes assemble on a specified day to foot it gaily in the dance and drink each other's health glass to glass in brimming bumpers. These joyous fetes, a kind of fraternal and social invitation, which are given and accepted by the rural population when spring and verdure made their appearance, are held all over France, and rejoice every heart. In our day, though much shorn of its ancient revelry, and neglected, la fete du village is still kept up, for it is, so to speak, indigenous,—a part of our social habits, and like everything which carries within it a generous sentiment, is loved and cherished by the people. As the day approaches every village is suitably decorated, the women are all on the tip toe of excitement to see and be seen, the peasant throws dull care behind him, and the artizans in the nearest town work with renewed energy in order that they may do honour to the occasion. Every one, in short, makes his way to the rendezvous, a merry laugh on his lip and joy in his heart, and, lost in the tumult and general gaiety that prevail, all forget, for some few hours, their hard work and privations.

These festivals offer to each either profit or amusement; the peasants find in them a refreshing and salutary rest from toil, the tradesman fails not to fill his pockets with their hard earnings, the clown shows off his summersets, the young men are touched with the tender passion, and the young girls, with their white teeth and sparkling eyes, await with feigned indifference the proposals of their admirers. The village fete forms a bright epoch in rustic life, and the gay hours passed at them are the happiest, the most joyous, and the most enchanting of the year.

Our ancestors, who knew and more thoroughly understood these matters than we do, who loved a laugh, the dance, and the merry outpourings of the heart, endeavoured by every means in their power to multiply them, and, after having seized upon the name of every saint in paradise, they managed to appropriate, and always for the same motive, all the various occupations known in the cultivation of the fields as a good excuse for holding more of these saturnalia. The season for sowing was one, the hay-harvest another, the wheat-harvest, the period of felling the oaks in the forest were excellent opportunities for establishing a new fete, and consequently buying a new coat, singing a carol, drinking to France, and skipping des Rigodons. For, be it said, one really does amuse oneself in my beautiful country; yes, one amuses oneself, perhaps, much more than one works; there are more Casinos built than acres grubbed up, and is not this partly the reason why the land is so badly tilled and produces only one half of what it should. But what signifies it, after all, if this half is sufficient for us. England, they say, is more opulent and better cultivated; be it so,—she is richer, she manufactures more; but is she happier?

Independently of these fetes, the number of which is infinite, but which occur only, in each locality, once a year, there exist also those merry meetings, which, like the Sunday, are understood by the peasantry as a general holiday. Amongst these, the most animated and attractive, and more usually marked by happy incidents, is that of the first of May. At the earliest dawn of day, the tones of the bagpipe may be distinguished in the distance, coming up the principal street of the village. He who has heard this rustic sound in the happy days of his childhood, under the shade of the elms, will always love the unmusical and melancholy wailing of the bagpipe. The strain has scarcely died away when all the village is alive, every one is up and dressed in his best—the children, with enormous nosegays in each little hand, go and present them to their delighted parents, and wish them "un doux mois de Mai."

Each house, perfumed like a parterre of flowers, opens its doors, and, during the live long day, it is between friends and acquaintance a series of happy smiles, and a mutual exchange of nosegays and hearty shaking of hands. Then in the evening, when the moon has risen in the west over the fir woods, the young lads and lasses, with their fathers and mothers, saunter along the streets arm in arm. At short distances, on the roofs of the houses, are seen, elevated in the air, gigantic chaplets of flowers, illuminated by large torches of rosin. Within these chaplets are others of smaller size. A dance, grand rond, is formed by the young lovers that have carried the May to their sweethearts, who, rising before the dawn, had already gathered the mysterious declaration of love, perfumed and still covered with the tears of night. In this large circle is formed another of children, about ten years of age, and within this again, a third of quite little things; small human garlands within the greater one. And the bagpipe plays, and all the world dance, and every one is happy, and the evening breeze shaking the large chaplets above showers of lilac and hawthorn bloom fall on the dancers and rustic ballroom beneath.

To these village fetes must be added, to complete the list of our popular holidays—the religious festivals, established by the Roman Catholic church, which, in the eyes of our rural population, are the most imposing and magnificent ceremonies of the year. These fetes are very little known in Protestant countries; a few details, therefore, of one of them, taken at hazard, may please, or at least offer some point of interest to the reader.

In the month of June, when the heavens are all azure, when the sun smiles on us here below, and the summer flowers are all in bloom, the long-expected fete, the Fete Dieu, la fete des Roses, the feast of Corpus Christi, one of the most brilliant festivals of the Roman Catholic church takes place.

Several days before, all the houses appear in a new toilette, decked out with evergreens and branches of the vine and tamarisk, festoons of which are suspended from window to window. All the streets of the village are washed and swept, like a drawing-room. On the preceding evening every garden is opened, the borders are ravaged, baskets-full of roses, armfulls of jasmine, bunches of gilly-flowers and sweet-pea fall under a little army of scissars and white hands. The camellias complain, the heliotropes murmur, all the tribe of tulips are in low spirits, for each family gathers in a perfect harvest of flowers—every one remarks to the other—"To-morrow is the fete Dieu, the feast of roses—the favourite festival of the year." And when aurora, pale with watching, rises in the cloudless sky, when the cock, herald of the morn, proclaims the birth of another day, when the first golden ray, traversing space, lights the eastern casement, behind which many a lovely bosom heaves, with anticipated conquest and excitement, the bells of the village church are heard, and at this merry signal every one is up and soon busily engaged superintending the preparations for the day.

The streets, as if by enchantment, are carpeted with verdure; the pine, the oak, and the birch, from the neighbouring forest, contribute their young shoots and leaves; the prickly broom its yellow flowers. The facades of the houses are hidden under their various hangings, the rich suspend from their windows their splendid carpets; the poor, sheets as white as driven snow. All ornament them, here and there, with roses, pinks, and carnations. Then, at short distances down the principal street, the young demoiselles of the village erect what are termed reposoirs, a kind of chapel or altar, improvised for the occasion, which lead to an emulation and an animated rivalry perfectly terrible. It is whose shall be the largest, best, and most elegantly decorated, and these young nymphs, usually so reserved and so easily frightened, become, for this week, as bold and free as so many dragoons. They enter the house, without being announced, open the drawers, visit the secretaries, ransack the cupboards. Pirates, with taper fingers, they put into their baskets and reticules all the valuables they can lay their hands on. Objects of art they are sure to seize, more especially if they are made of the precious metals. It is who shall adorn her reposoir with gold and bronze vases, with enamelled cups, pictures, and rich crucifixes. Important meetings are held, in some secret spot, to determine of what form the altar shall be; if the dominating colour shall be blue, purple, or lilac. Then there is a consultation whether the drapery, that is to cover this temporary chapel, shall be with or without a fringe,—a discussion which becomes more entangled with difficulties than those in the Parliamentary Club of the Rue des Pyramides, as to the continued existence or demise of our poor constitution. Silk, satin, and velvet ornament the interior of the elegant edifice; the most delicate perfumes burn in each of its corners, and, in order further to embellish the altar on which the Holy Eucharist is to rest for a few minutes, there is a perfect coquetting with chaplets, festoons of gauze, crystal lamps of various colours, and transparencies through which the subdued rays of the sun shed their softened light.